Decarion considered himself a patient person when compared to his brothers, but even he was getting fed up with these Crimson Fist bastards. For the past hour, that damn Thunderhawk had been on their tail the whole time, and now Varik was nowhere to be seen since the building collapsed. Malith had managed to shoot the loyalists down with their last rocket. By the time his squad got back to where the building had collapsed—to either regroup with Varik or at least gather his gene-seed—Varik was gone.
Much to his annoyance.
Vosk managed to figure out which direction Varik went—the same direction as the crashed Thunderhawk. Decarion sighed. While he wasn't upset that Varik had survived, he was upset that he was having to go on a wild chase to find him.
Decarion voxed Solm and told him to bring in the Rhino, then ordered Malith and Kael to come down to the street so they could go retrieve Varik.
"Sergeant, I think Varik was injured, or at least took a hit. His tracks are inconsistent at first and take a while to stabilize." Vosk was still kneeling by Varik's tracks as he pointed out the path their brother had taken.
Decarion looked at the tracks and saw what he meant, then looked around. He guessed that Varik must have hit his head on the way down. Another thing to worry about. His day was just getting better and better.
As Solm drove the Rhino in front of the building, Decarion looked at his squad's transport—the same one he'd ridden in since before he was a Sergeant, the same one that had nearly been crushed by Titans at the Siege of Terra. It was a mess of scorch marks, dents, and breaches.
Decarion sighed as he boarded the Rhino, trying the vox to see if he could get ahold of Varik. As the rest of the squad boarded, the Sergeant kept trying. He could see Varik's life readings, so Decarion knew he was alive.
He finally got a return signal from Varik's vox. "Varik, where in the Primarch's name are you? We're all in the Rhino, headed to where the Thunderhawk crashed. Can you see it?"
Decarion couldn't hear anything save for Varik's slow breathing before he got an answer.
"It's below me, Brother-Sergeant. I am in the church. The fire is growing. I pulled out the bodies." A pause. "I can hear someone coming. Someone in power armor."
Before Decarion could get more answers, he heard bolter fire ring out over the vox as Varik cut the connection.
The Sergeant cursed as he banged on the inside of the Rhino and told Solm to hurry up, throwing in the fact that Varik had recovered some of the bodies of the Loyalists. This got Solm to take some shortcuts—ramming through weakened buildings.
Decarion sat down as he pondered his brief conversation with Varik. It was off. Varik was quiet, calm—he almost sounded like he was speaking with actual respect that wasn't drenched in sarcasm. He would have to see how much damage had been done to Varik when he got there.
If Varik was still alive, that is.
Marcus—Varik—whichever name was true, leapt to one side as bolter rounds struck where he had been. Standing at the entrance, bolter already tracking him, was an Astartes in blue and red armor.
Grabbing a wooden stool, he hurled it at the Loyalist, who smashed it aside. But in that moment of distraction, Marcus fired his bolter. His lack of focus, born from the shock of being attacked and Marcus being in his first fight where death was a real risk, caused his shots to spray wide. Each round landed off-center—leg, chest, pauldron—but they still caused the Loyalist to stagger.
While Marcus was too inexperienced in real fighting, Varik had centuries of war to call upon. Even if he had forgotten, his body remembered.
Lunging forward, Varik slammed his shoulder into the Loyalist, sending him falling down the stairs all the way to the ground floor.
Marcus resisted the urge to jump down, instead firing his bolter at the Astartes below. The Loyalist managed to roll out of the way, only taking a hit to his side, the chest plate cracking.
The Loyalist fired back. Varik was hit on his pauldron, and a shot grazed his helm, forcing him back. Anger took hold. He drew the stolen chainsword in one hand, firing his bolter in the other to pin down the damned Loyalist.
When the bolter ran dry, the Loyalist leapt from cover. But instead of firing on him as Marcus feared, the Loyalist drew his own chainsword and met his charge. Sparks flew as the two chainblades raged against each other.
Marcus felt his arm waver. He swung his bolter like a club and struck the Loyalist in the head. Stunned, the Crimson Fist staggered. Varik was on him instantly, chainsword thrust into the Loyalist's exposed side, ripping into organs. Blade and ceramite sprayed out as the chainsword roared.
Varik kept pushing the chainblade deeper into the Crimson Fist's body. When the Loyalist tried to swing his own blade, Marcus dropped his bolter and gripped the Crimson Fist's arm, stopping the revving teeth from tearing off his face. Instead, they bit into his pauldron.
Varik could feel the pauldron starting to give under the assault, and frustration rose. Why wouldn't this damn Loyalist die?
He slammed his head into the son of Dorn's helm over and over until he finally felt the Crimson Fist go limp.
Marcus staggered back, tearing out the chainblade—drenched in gore, pulling out chunks of meat and organs. He looked at his pauldron and saw the Crimson Fist's chainblade still dug in. He tried to pull it out. It took a few attempts, but when he did, Varik could see the pauldron was ruined and would need to be replaced.
He kicked the Loyalist's body before looking for his bolter.
Marcus noted that the fire had grown even larger. He looked to the bodies of the other Crimson Fists and began dragging them out of the burning church. By the time he was done, the church was completely engulfed in flames, and he could hear the sounds of a vehicle approaching.
A Rhino.
When he turned, he saw a midnight blue, battle-worn Rhino approaching. Finally, a name came to mind when Marcus—Varik—looked at the bat-winged skull once more.
Night Lords.
Brothers.